


In the straitjacket

by Riakon



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Drama, Established Relationship, Eye Contact, Eyes Kink, Kink, Light BDSM, M/M, Post-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-09 18:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20999057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riakon/pseuds/Riakon
Summary: Idiots think you can come and exercise on the miserable Arthur Fleck. As if he is a training dummy, the purpose of which is only one thing: to be a testing ground for young psychologists and psychotherapists.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my many thanks to Dickens (https://twitter.com/teghuleh) for translating!

For some reason, everyone always forgets to say that straitjackets are so rough. Their tissue pricks and cannot warm up normally, and therefore constantly cools the skin with an unpleasant touch of synthetics.

However, this can be forgotten for a couple of moments - just look into the bright blue, underwater blue eyes opposite. The man sitting on the backside of the steel table screwed with all his feet to the floor looks like an average citizen, not a person who belongs to super-rich people, the real owners of Gotham.

“And what are you...” the voice vilely breaks into a coughing laugh, betraying its nervousness, although, to tell the truth, quite a while ago nothing like this happened in ten years in Arkham. You have to wait until the laughter subsides before you start again as if there were no such gasping sobs. “What are you doing here, Bruce? Have you come... to tease me?”

The head rolls from shoulder to shoulder - the neck is just an illusion. It seems that all people have it, but why then can each of them be forced to jump on the steps of the Museum of Art, like half-dropped balls? No, no, there is no neck, just like there is no Bruce Wayne, who sits opposite and looks at him. He looks with his suspiciously blue eyes.

Interestingly, he stole such from someone? He pulled out, plunging his fingers to the very base of the skull, grabbing the eye nerves with his beautiful phalanges, and snatched them like hot cakes from a broken, and therefore constantly unevenly heated, oven?

“Too clean,” the thought is unpleasant but true. The man in front of him crosses his legs and shakes his head slightly, seemingly answering an unasked question. Or is it an asked one? It’s so hard to remember everything because the damn straitjacket constantly cools the skin when he has guests - there’s no way without.

“I asked that they use handcuffs for the duration of our meetings,” a voice too loud, too young, tells him, and the exact age of the man who sits opposite and confesses a little quieter pops up in his mind, “they said that last time you were a little He didn’t strangle the shackles of his visitor, so for now - only so.

“Don't pretend you care!” the demand hangs in the air for an unfortunate moment, before his laugh breaks into thousands of sharp fragments, on which you can dance so beautifully. He can calm down but doesn't want, and the paroxysm doesn't fade away, making him suffocate, again and again, gasping for air, and shaking in a fit.

It’s hard not to wait for Bruce to ask him “what's so funny?” Or ask him to shut his mouth, or even get up from his place and do what hundreds tried before him. Idiots think you can come and exercise on the miserable Arthur Fleck. As if he is a training dummy, the purpose of which is only one thing: to be a testing ground for young psychologists and psychotherapists.

Today's visitor is not one of these, and it is unlikely to be. The little boy is still looking through adult features, recalling how he was surprised by the usual clown trick with a wand.

“You're the same as me,” the muttering beats with sharp teenage boots under the ribs, letting them feel how they unpleasantly crunch.

You can swear in the Bible the ability to list each crack that has been received, not to mention the fractures - they all itch under the skin and scratch from the inside, and whoever says anything, and this can be directly felt, it is enough to have a rich imagination.

“I never denied,” the interlocutor reminds, moving closer and letting him drown in his own eyes. The ice above the head closes, but there is no desire to even try to get out. Not once, ever since the lips dutifully parted, allowing you to "make" a smile with your fingers, painfully stretching the delicate skin to the sides, without interrupting eye contact.

Damn straitjacket is scratched, reminding of itself, you just have to try to reach out to the young man on the contrary, and do the same trick - or one of the many that are packaged in imaginary pockets. The magic is to get a treasure that will drive the questioner crazy with a smooth scenic gesture.

But wait, does Bruce ask questions? The narrow lips are closed, and Arthur just wants to put his fingers in that mouth, open it slightly, make sure that on the back lips are still soft, gentle, the way he remembers them. Own tongue slides along the edge of the lip, leaving a wet mark, hiding quickly - as if to swallow a fish, sucking its delicate body directly into its mouth.

There is too much saliva, and the Adam's apple falls down the throat, going down the larynx, and rises again, counting the inner rhythm of the Japanese garden overgrown with madness. Shishi-odoshi, filling with either saliva or blood - is this not the most beautiful thing that a person has? And it sounds so beautiful.

“I am a romantic now, Penny,” the voice of an inner child growing up overnight tears his head, forcing his upper lip to open and twisting in a contemptuous grin. It is good that the old bitch doesn't see that they returned home.

The butterflies of thoughts outfly from the head, slipping out through an open mouth, as soon as thin fingers touch his larynx, hold on the Adam's apple. The smell of the forest, resinous branches and distant notes of smoke from a forest fire, which no one seems to be watching. A little more, and it will break off in a fire, but until the sweetness has completely dissipated, there is hope for salvation.

He always smelled like that - from the very first time, from the only touch that Arthur Fleck made, as long as he remained in a sober mind and distinct memory. Well, or in what pretended to be them, because madness swallowed him, caught up with just a couple of days later. Should I say this to Bruce?

“Don’t they feed you at all?” a hollow, unemotional voice pulls out from long deliberation, and now, when the glances meet, two blue dips shine directly opposite him.

“Did you enjoy it” random questions do not even make the chiseled face flinch, although this handsome man is always extremely attentive to his words. Unlike the woman from the social service who oversaw him for so long, but with the reduction she found the strength to regret only herself - Bruce looks solely at him, and such exclusive attention, Arthur admits it, is flattering. - “Enjoyed when you took such eyes to yourself? This look...” 

The voice cracks and a new portion of barking cough interrupt the thought, breaks it off. It’s good to be crazy - you don’t have to worry about someone thinking something wrong about you. Including remembering what was discussed before, because if it's not important to the interlocutor, he won't remember, and if is important, he won't let him forget.

Burst out a laugh, an infinite repeat of crying. The eternal engine in a corrupted brain doesn't want to stop or slow down, and this is already dangerous. It shouldn't be so - unexpressed feelings always try to pour out in an uncontrolled roar, tormenting and tearing to the heart.

“You are stronger,” Bruce's voice flies like a stone in his face, gets stuck somewhere in the larynx, giving a respite, and then completely stopping the paroxysm.

There is no doubt in the thrown words, and there never has been - his interlocutor is not the one who will open his mouth for nothing and rambles on, no matter how frivolous he was considered by these stupid bureaucrats and cute reporters who had previously hung the name of the burner of life.

“You must eat,” his brother repeats, and a completely smug grin appears on his lips.

“I won’t die of hunger. More likely from your cooking. Did you bring it?” sweetness is not only perfume, but it is also obvious. Jam and vanilla, sweet dust, which is so pleasant to draw in with a big nose and feel the mucosa sticking together from sugar, but such neglect are hardly allowed in their strange dance.

At least, Arthur will never squander such a manifestation of attention, as a small bun smelled of candied pear confiture and molasses, that fills his mouth with saliva. The Adam's apple twitches, freeing its mouth from the flow of saliva and now allowing the foreign fingers to fill his mouth, as opposed to leaving a piece of an awesome-smelling bun in it.

The crumbly dough excites the imagination much less than the fingers sprinkled with icing sugar, on which the tongue glides quickly, to shortness of breath, to the darkened backwaters of the eyes opposite and his pulling feeling in the lower abdomen.

Arthur can’t afford anything more erotic when his hands are constrained by a dense fabric, not allowing to break out of capture and slide his fingers across Bruce's cheek, teasingly touch his lips and whisper imperiously, confidently:

“Smile.”

The confidence that no one has ever seen Bruce Wayne so real is growing stronger at his every visit, and those are more and more often lately. Maybe he is really afraid the miserable and insignificant Arthur Fleck will disappear from the face of the earth, dissolve in his bones and blood? Does this make the city benefactor, who drops large sums of money to a psychiatric hospital, come here again and again, and, without shy of burns on fingers, slowly feed the most dangerous criminal of this institution from his hands, like a tamed wild beast?

“You're on a leash too, silly,” the words roll out from under your fingers, melting in a pear confiture, which is so sweet to madness. It makes no sense to talk about what is clear for both of them without words. The moments when the lips close on the fingers, picking up a new piece without excessive vulgarity, are habitually neat, valued above all others by each side. It doesn’t matter if painful words are heard in the air about loneliness, fear or loss, whether they will talk about the last riot in the hospital or Mr. Wayne’s misadventures.

Everything recedes into the background when they touch each other, only the straitjacket restricts movements and doesn't allow to do what always allows to establish ourselves in a clear mind for at least a month before their next meeting.

A strong farewell hug is initiated by only one of them, but the rough cool fabric doesn't allow it to happen, and as soon as the bun ends, menacing vultures knock on the glass on the other side, promising to tear Arthurs body with sharp claws and beaks, unless they hurry, but while Bruce is here - no one dares to come in and touch him.

And when the doors open, Arthur Fleck will again change form, flow and fill with new meaning.

Will become a haven of fresh ideas.

“Another time, without a straitjacket,” neither request is heard in the tone, nor the order. The statement of fact is accompanied by such a careful look that there is no other choice but to grin and laugh.

So far - on his own.

And alone.

But only now.


	2. Chapter 2

The table rattles when sharp knees quickly knock on it. It is impossible to restrain tremor - this is even more difficult than to cope with the laughter that gurgles in the larynx, bursting out with short bursts, making people shudder and look around, although there are too many of them.

However,t Bruce sits quietly - sits and looks, looks and sits.

Why the hell does he stay so calm when a flame rages inside, people die around? What the devil he almost doesn't blink and doesn't take his eyes off, with his serpentine eyes glaring at the soul itself, nailing it to the wall?

“They're scared of you, aren't they, Bruce?” breaks loose on exhale faster than the head manages to process it, but Arthur doesn’t give a damn about it, because the most important thing is happening right now.

If the table hadn’t been fastened, it could have been pushed with a foot and kicked properly at the person sitting opposite, but no matter how strong the screws are, these two cold, indifferent cavities hold stronger.

Like a hand impossible not to feel on the scruff of the neck - Bruce Wayne's gaze. Ordinary people, feeling its icy grip, do run in horror or spread out before their feet - if Arthur had at least something more valuable than his skin, he could bet on it and win a one-time bet, but he has nothing more valuable, besides his carcass belongs more likely the cold and confident hand of the man opposite, rather than to the one who was born with it.

How did this happen? How did it come about? It cannot be, it should not - he is older, he is more experienced, he...  
“Yes,” agrees a calm and sonorous voice, mercilessly fetching from the thoughts a spark of reason, which is ready to get lost in the labyrinth of consciousness. The boy takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and a shiver runs through Arthur's body, causing the table above his legs to stop ringing and rattling.

In small hands, a cardboard box with poisonous sticks looks mesmerizing, like a grenade with a safety clip pulled away, inserted into a mouth with a torn jaw. Unbelievably beautiful.

“Mr. Wayne,” the vile guard tries to ruin the picture, intervene in it with his enormous insentient fingers, but the wave of a tiny child’s palm stops him a second before the magic is destroyed.

A well-honed sucker punch - where can little Wayne learn that? How does he spend his days? What it takes to be able to get a cigarette like this, confidently and without a shadow of a doubt, doing everything not only right but also beautiful?

“A scalpel for papers would look good in such hands,” a nod to his thoughts and a smile make his eyes warm. Or is it how the lighter strikes, which Bruce brings to his face when he lights a cigarette?

Yes, for sure, if you give him just a paper-knife, this little boy will be able to arrange a performance worthy of any patient of Arkham. Cut into thin slices, like the ones he brought last time. Or the time before last?

The mind like a sieve refuses to remember the exact numbers, but the taste of the beef jerky instantly appears on the tongue, forcing it to open its mouth wider and swallow, as if thin boyish fingers don't let it slam.

The narrow lips around the filter look like a real porn show in a psychiatric clinic in public - without embarrassment, without shame, frankly.

“Do you know he's watching?” the question is almost immediately followed by a nod, and now it’s vitally necessary to add: “And the fact that he will wank off a little boy with a cigarette more than once, of course, too?”

The warmth in the gaze does not disappear, and such sincerity makes the legs shake again. Knees beat against a sharp side, leaving a true mark in the memory - bruises, which will be the only connection between the reality of what is happening and Arthur's hallucinogenic delirium.

A croaking laugh breaks out again, and he has to raise his hands to drown it. He doesn’t need it now - he should be calm, focused, attentive if only Bruce would come here again and drowned again in the warm ocean of his gaze - but he can’t stop it.

The chain creaks, forcing hearing, the air turns into poison, which burns the lungs, but all this is not enough to force himself to take control of paroxysm. Every time unexpressed feelings tear his soul, makes him laughs. He expels madness, losing himself forever in the ocean of crying laughter.

A cigarette smolders in the boy’s thin fingers, and when its filter is at his mouth, it smells of Bruce. The tongue slips over wet paper catch this taste, and the exhalation of disgust from the guard is the best accompaniment to everything that is happening here and now.

“Do you want to do it yourself?” Arthur only needs to sit in a half-turn, and exhaling bitter smoke, look at the thick, tall asshole who cannot take his eyes off what is not meant for him. It’s not for the hard worker who looks after the integrity of the visitors of the psychiatric clinic, all this is a performance, and he, of course, is aware of this, because the oily gaze doesn't just fumble on a white shirt on a skinny boy who has a filter in his fingers. “Do you want to kiss the son of Gotham?”

Everything inside gathers in a single clod, and now Arthur Fleck feels much more collected than for their entire meeting. Slender, like a whip, strong as an arrow strike, he can see the dirtiest, most secret desires of others, and now it's so obvious that the hog, which is not able to take his eyes off them, longs to be in his place itself.

This can be arranged - the asshole needs to get a little closer. Just a little, and then - it’s enough to kick correctly to dump the idiot on a sharp edge, hit him a couple of times, forcing the nasal cartilage to snuggle in a gentle kiss to the brain - and then the envious person will feel what it means - the taste of Bruce Wayne on a cigarette filter.

“Artie,” the steel voice, studded with soft felt, makes his knees break and fall back into his chair, although even to notice that he began to get up is almost unrealistic.

“And you can't stop thinking about it, right?” a cheeky voice calls for a duel, and will the Joker miss such a chance?

The cobra doesn't warn hissing that it is about to rush, but Bruce still somehow knows this, because his eyes are riveted in place, and outstretched hands again press the cigarette filter to his lips, allowing Arthur to make a slow, leisurely puff. Strong tobacco pleasantly tickles in the nose, leaving bubbles of pleasure in the throat, but eroticism doesn't end there, because then the boy presses the filter to lips again and covers his eyes in pleasure.

“I can’t,” consent tears the air along with a chuckle and frank confession, which can be scattered left and right, like bombs, that they burst so merrily when they are torn from the inside. “This is the most beautiful thing I've seen in my entire life.”

Thin lips open, smoke envelops his face for a moment, and the very next Bruce rips open the veil, like a real ghost who has decided to appear in a small meeting room, and holds out a cigarette, holding confidently by a long stick with tobacco, but not touching the filter.

The chains ring, slipping through the hole in the table, and Arthur only has to reach out his hands to the opposite hand, and, clutching the thin and fragile wrist in his fingers tightly, press the filter to his lips, and drag on, drowning in the gaps of blue eyes.

If the chain had enough length, Arthur would probably have allowed himself to make a huge, utter stupidity and pull the young man by the neatly trimmed neck, but it isn't enough for more than slipping pads on the arm slowly studying the wrist and catching the pulse.

Enthusiastically counting the moments before the impending explosion, a knock fills the head with bitter smoke, the smell of the forest and the sweetness of the poison that permeates the soul of everyone who decides to approach a young orphan. The hand trembles a little, it’s worth stroking the bulging bones on the wrist, and the abyss in blue eyes becomes even deeper, subjugating to itself, taking all the chaos from which the once broken whole personality is composed.

“I will leave you cigarettes,” the calm voice doesn't fit in with the aura of perfection, which suppresses the will, obeys the orders of the young, but already so completely dominant that it remains only to nod. - Do not screw up until next time.

“I always spoil, Bruce, this is life,” the smirk lays down on his face, digging uneven fragments into the skin to the meat, but the warm tips of the fingers smelling of tobacco smooth the sharp edges, sliding down his cheek and touching his long prominent nose.

“This is life,” agrees a calm voice, lulling the criminal pressed against the soft children's palm.

When he returns, the Joker will still have one cigarette under his pillow, for which at least three will pay for trying to steal, because no one has the right to take it.

The Joker very skillfully defends what he considers his own.

And whom too.

**Author's Note:**

> Are you interested in what will happen next? Do you want to find more of my work? I recommend to follow the link to Twitter and learn more about my work in the pinned message!)  
https://twitter.com/Riakon3  
I also have a community in VK and on the tumblr for porn previews:  
https://vk.com/riakon_porn  
And there is also a discord for chat:  
https://discord.gg/6dQadXQ


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